Being present with anticipation,sitting still between paradox and irony,she could feel it; expectation like the first Monday of summer vacation. And down the long, dry road,rumors of the Carnival that would come.

Within movements of the clockand the sundial’s triangular shadeare sub-beats, counterpoint of heartdrums,that measure “until” with little patience.The waiting rumbles in her bodyas her skin tries to hold its own wild reaching.

How can life so widely stretch,molasses strapped, to take so long?When will these days give overto a star-capped night under the Big Topwhere feats of strength and daring are rewardedwith the taste of pink spun sugar on awed lips.

Not now. Now time still plods, leaning.She rolls yearning around her tongueand wills the hours to keep their stately pacelest they break form and rush throughvital moments so long sought, so desired.In this, she learns the value of slowness.